Preference
by ashestoashesanddusttodust
Summary: Every guy has a type, and Clint has never really concealed his. Clint x Pietro


**Preference  
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 **Notes:** Ibid.

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"A comment could be made about your tastes, Clint," Natasha says and then pointedly doesn't say anything more.

"That they're awesome and people should stop bitching about it when they know I'm right?" Clint asks as the commercials come on. He doesn't fast forward through them though, it's a given that the Sergeant will live. Dog Cops wouldn't be the same show without him, who would raise the puppies? "You _like_ this show too."

"Unwillingly," which is a damn lie. Clint hadn't had to do more than flip the channel once for her to get hooked. He'd had to bribe Bruce and guilt Steve a few times to get them on the same page. Tony is trickier but Clint's thinking he might follow Coulson's advice and just tase him. "I'm not talking about this," Nat makes a regal looking gesture at the TV. "I'm talking about _that_."

That gets a single finger jab that leads Clint's eyes out to the terrace area where Sam is schooling Tony on the differences between propane and charcoal grilling. Tony's already checked out of the conversation but every time he tries to edge away either Steve or Pietro will block him. Steve because he's been turned into a grill nut by Sam, and has a serious need to share his new found love for one of the most American thing ever. Pietro because Tony obviously hates being out there right now, and both the Maximoffs will not hesitate to sacrifice themselves in order to troll Tony.

"I'm a red-blooded, American man, Nat," Clint solemnly says as Tony gets blocked from easy escape again. "Meat over fire with some kind of barbeque sauce is genetic. You can't call that taste."

Clint rolls to the side and over the arm of the chair fast enough that he only feels the breeze pass his head. When he looks up Nat is sitting serenely still, no sign of the weapon she just pulled, and there's a tiny little slice in the back of the couch. She glares at him and stretches her feet out to take over the spot he's been warming all day. "Don't bullshit me when I'm looking for gossip, Barton."

"Oh!" Clint snaps his fingers in the air and tries to look how he imagines Tony or Bruce would look when they find the answer to something really hard. Well, how _he_ thinks they _should_ look since that's just about a normal hour for them. "Well, why didn't you say that to begin with? It would've narrowed down the topic a lot if I knew you were fishing for info to pass onto Coulson."

Usually Coulson fishes for the lowdown on Steve, occasionally Tony, but sometimes he'll get nostalgic and use one of them to spy on the other. It's fun for a few days but Clint and Nat have an agreement for things like that. They'll do as ordered -or asked in this case, because Coulson never gives orders if he can help it- and promptly let the other know what's been going on. Both to see if they caught anything, and to fill in any blanks that might be in the report.

Clint rolls over to sprawl out on the floor. Keeping his head propped up enough to see when the commercials are over while still giving Nat his undivided attention. "Yeah, I didn't notice at all."

"That's not surprising," Nat snorts derisively. There's a hint of a pout to her as she lays herself out along the couch. Making her tiny frame take up all the space somehow. She's not even smug this time, and Clint can't really blame her. He knows his head's been far away lately. Aliens could've marched in a parade in front of him and he'd likely have not noticed them. "Like I said, your tastes. Something could be said about them. Several things, and not at all complimentary."

"Like I said, I'm a red-blooded, American man," Clint smirks at the eye roll that gets him. "I'm an ass man, Nat. Smartass, jackass, dumbass. Doesn't matter what kind so long as it's ass."

"You've described every male in this building right now," Nat intones. Her eyebrows creep up in a silent insinuation. "But you've only been panting after one of them like Sergeant going for a hooker poodle in heat."

"Tell me you didn't disable the cameras in here," Clint clasps his hands over his chest with a dramatic gasp before wiping invisible tears from his face. "I will treasure and remember this day for the rest of my life. You used a Dog Cops reference in conversation. I need the tape as proof!"

"Your life will be over in minutes. You don't need the tape," Nat scowls down at him, and her left hand disappears in warning.

"Fine, fine. Like I said, I fully enjoy the excellent range and selection of asses gathered here," Clint waves his hand around them vaguely. Including the general direction the Hellicarrier -old and new- tends to hover when it's stealthing New York. "But you have to admit that the best _ass_ ass will always be found on runners."

Nat makes a thoughtful noise that's part disbelief and part agreement. The familiar tune of the show starts up and Clint turns his head to watch even as Nat gets in one more prod for information. "And it helps that Pietro is all those other kinds of asses too?"

"Smartass, jackass, dumbass, pain in my ass," Clint agrees easily, and ignores the snorted laughter. "Come on, we'll finish gossiping at the next commercial break."

"Your tastes," Nat mutters before falling silent as Sergeant proves he is not only a smart dog, but a bullet-proof one too.

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End file.
